"You ought, if it were so," said Meta, nevertheless holding him tighter. "I could not bear to keep back a soldier. If this were last year, and I had any tie or duty here, it would be very hard. But no one needs me, and if the health I have always had be continued to me, I don't think I shall be much in the way. There,"--drawing back a little, and trying to laugh off her feeling--"only tell me at once if you think me still too much of a fine lady."
"I--you--a fine lady! Did anything ever give you the impression that I did?"
"I shall not get poor Harry into a scrape, shall I? He told me that you said so, last spring, and I feared you judged me too truly."
After a few exclamations of utter surprise, it flashed on Norman. "I know, I know--Harry interpreted my words in his own blunt fashion!"
"Then you did say something like it?"
"No, but--but-- In short, Meta, these sailors' imaginations go to great lengths. Harry had guessed more than I knew myself, before he had sailed, and taxed me with it. It was a subject I could not bear then, and I answered that you were too far beyond my hopes."
"Six years ago!" said Meta slowly, blushing deeper and deeper. "Some eyes saw it all that time, and you--and," she added, laughing, though rather tearfully, "I should never have known it, if Tom had not taken me through the plantations!"
"Not if I had not discovered that your preferences did not lie--"
"Among boudoirs and balls?" said Meta. "Harry was right. You thought me a fine lady after all."
The gay taunt was cut short by a tap at the door, and Flora looked in.
"Dr. Spencer has brought your things, Norman. I am sorry to disturb you--but come down, Meta--I ran away very uncivilly to fetch you. I hope it is not too cruel," as she drew Meta's arm into her own, and added, "I have not been able speak to George."
Meta suspected that, in the wish to spare her, Flora had abstained from seeking him.
The evening went off like any other evening--people ate and talked, thought Mrs. Rivers looking very ill, and Miss Rivers very pretty-- Flora forced herself into being very friendly to Sir Henry, commiserating the disappointment to which she had led him; and she hoped that he suspected the state of affairs, though Tom, no longer supplanted by his elder brother, pursued Meta into the sheltered nook, where Flora had favoured her seclusion, to apologise for having left her to the guidance of poor Norman, whose head was with the blackamoors. It was all Harry's fault.
"Nonsense, Tom," said Harry; "don't you think Norman is better company than you any day?"
"Then why did you not walk him off instead of me?" said Tom, turning round sharply.
"Out of consideration for Meta. She will tell you that she was very much obliged to me--"
Harry checked himself, for Meta was colouring so painfully that his own sunburned face caught the glow. He pushed Tom's slight figure aside with a commanding move of his broad hand, and said, "I beg your pardon, upon my word, though I don't know what for."
"Nor I," said Meta, rallying herself, and smiling. "You have no pardon to beg. You will know it all to-morrow."
"Then I know it now," said Harry, sheltering his face by leaning over the back of a chair, and taming the hearty gaiety of his voice. "Well done, Meta; there's nothing like old June in all the world! You may take my word for it, and I knew you would have the sense to find it out."
They were well out of sight, and Meta only answered by a good tight squeeze of his kind hand between both her own. Tom, suddenly recovering from his displeasure at being thrust aside, whisked round, dropped on a footstool before Meta, locked up in her face, and said, "Hallo!" in such utter amazement that there was nothing for it but to laugh more uncontrollably than was convenient. "Come along, Tom," said Harry, pulling him up by force, "she does not want any of your nonsense. We will not plague her now."
"Thank you, Harry," said Meta. "I cannot talk rationally just yet. Don't think me unkind, Tom."
Tom sat in a sort of trance all the rest of the evening.
Lord Cosham talked to Norman, who felt as if he were being patronised on false pretences, drew into his shell, and displayed none of his "first-rate abilities."
Dr. Spencer discussed his architecture with the archdeacon; but his black eyes roamed heedfully after the young gentleman and lady, in the opposite corners of the room; and, as he drove home afterwards with the youths, he hummed scraps of Scottish songs, and indulged in silent smiles.
Those at home had been far more demonstrative. Dr. May had arrived, declaring himself the proudest doctor in her Majesty's dominions, and Ethel needed nothing but his face to explain why, and tell her that dear old June's troubles were over, and their pretty little Meta was their own--a joy little looked for to attend their foundation-stone.
The dreaded conference with Lord Cosham had proved highly gratifying. There might be something in the fact that he could not help it, which assisted in his ready acquiescence, but he was also a sensible right- minded man, who thought that the largeness of Meta's fortune was no reason that it should be doubled; considered that, in the matter of connection, the May family had the advantage, and saw in Norman; a young man whom any one might have pleasure in bringing forward. Oxford had established confidence both in his character and talents, and his speech had been such as to impress an experienced man, like Lord Cosham, with an opinion of his powers, that prepared a welcome for him, such as no one could have dared to expect. His lordship thought his niece not only likely to be happier, but to occupy a more distinguished position with such a man as Norman May, than with most persons of ready-made rank and fortune.
The blushing and delighted Dr. May had thought himself bound to speak of his son's designs, but he allowed that the project had been formed under great distress of mind, and when he saw it treated by so good a man, as a mere form of disappointed love, he felt himself reprieved from the hardest sacrifice that he had ever been called on to make, loved little Meta the better for restoring his son, and once more gave a free course to the aspirations that Norman's brilliant boyhood had inspired. Richard took the same view, and the evening passed away in an argument--as if any one had been disputing with them--the father reasoning loud, the son enforcing it low, that it had become Norman's duty to stay at home to take care of Meta, whose father would have been horrified at his taking her to the Antipodes. They saw mighty tasks for her fortune to effect in England, they enhanced each other's anticipations of Norman's career, overthrew abuses before him, heaped distinctions upon him, and had made him Prime Minister and settled his policy, before ten o'clock brought their schemes to a close.
Mary gazed and believed; Margaret lay still and gently assented; Ethel was silent at first, and only when the fabric became extremely airy and magnificent, put in her word with a vehement dash at the present abuses, which grieved her spirit above all, and, whether vulnerable or not, Norman was to dispose of, like so many giants before Mr. Great-heart.
She went upstairs, unable to analyse her sentiments. To be spared the separation would be infinite relief--all this prosperity made her exult--the fair girl at the Grange was the delight of her heart, and yet there was a sense of falling off; she disliked herself for being either glad or sorry, and could have quarrelled with the lovers for perplexing her feelings so uncomfortably.
Though she sat up till the party returned, she was inclined to be supposed in bed, so as to put off the moment of meeting; but Margaret, who she hoped was asleep, said from her pillow, "Ask dear Norman to let me give him one kiss."
She ran down headlong, clutched Norman as he was taking off his greatcoat, told him that Margaret wanted him, and dragged him up without letting him go, till she reached the first landing, where she stood still, saying breathlessly, "New Zealand."